I fucking hated people who stole from me.
Which was ironic, considering the only thing that had kept me from starving as
a kid had been picking pockets and snatching purses. I dropped my elbows to the
desk and rubbed a hand over my buzzed head.

“Goddamn, karma’s a bitch.”

“She the bitch you fucked last night, bro?”
The leather of my office couch creaked as Mathieu sank his tall, lanky frame
into it.

“How many times do I have to tell you not
to call women ‘bitches,’ boy?”

My words were met with a long sigh from
Mathieu. Ever since he’d walked into Chains and tried to grab a guitar and run
back out the door—only to be tackled to the ground by yours truly—he’d been a
fixture in my life. To be fair, his choices had been to work off the price of
what he’d attempted to steal, or go directly to the nearest cop shop. The
entire situation had been such a blast from the past, I’d caught myself smiling
when I should’ve been glaring and scaring the piss out of the kid. But
apparently I’d done an okay job of it because he’d decided starting a rap sheet
at seventeen wasn’t a good plan. Thank fuck. Almost two years later, the kid
was my right hand.

And now that Chains was mine, someone was
stealing from me—but not just someone. An employee. Someone I should’ve been
able to trust. The cameras I had installed on her day off had already paid for
themselves.

I rolled my head from side to side,
cracking my neck. I hated firing people. It never got easier. And this time?
This time it was going to be even worse … because there would be tears. And
quite possibly claws.

Pushing up from the chair, I strode to the
door without looking at Mathieu. Over my shoulder, I tossed, “You might want to
stay here; Brianna’s ass is about to get canned.”

“For real?” His words followed me out, but
I didn’t bother to reply.

Every time I stepped foot onto the shop
floor, a feeling of pride surged through me—pride that I’d helped build this
business into one that was not only honest, but profitable. At least, it was
profitable when one of my employees wasn’t skimming off the till and messing
with my bank deposits.

Finger twirling in her long, dark
extensions and gum snapping between her teeth, Brianna flipped the pages of a
magazine with a giant black Sharpie in one hand, circling shit. Probably shit
she wanted to buy with the money she’d been stealing from me. The store was
empty, which made what I was about to do a little easier.

“Bree, need a few minutes.”

Her head popped up, lips pursing as she
took me in. “You can have all the time you need, boss.” Her gaudy fake
eyelashes batted at me in what I assumed was supposed to be a sexy move. I
stowed the urge to tell her to save it for someone whose dick got hard at the
sight of her … but since I was about to fire her, why add insult to injury? The
woman had been unsuccessfully trying to add her notch to my bedpost since I’d
hired her. Bringing her on had been a mistake, and I’d known it from the minute
she’d walked in the door, but a friend had called in a favor.

“Boss? You had something to say?” she
prompted.

I watched her, not speaking.

She stopped the hair twirling and capped
the Sharpie, resituating herself on the stool and folding her hands in her lap.

“Lord?”

“You’re done.”

Bree’s dark eyes flew wide. “Done? You mean
done for the day?”

“Done. For good. Get your shit and get
out.”

Bree lost the innocent pose as she crossed
her arms and stared me down. “Not until you tell me why.”

In two long strides, I closed the distance
between the register and me and pressed my hands to the counter.

“I gave you a job. Gave you a paycheck you
didn’t have to suck a dick to get. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to
have more, and instead of coming to me and asking for a raise, you decided to
make it happen yourself.”

The color faded from her face, leaving her
mocha-colored skin sallow. “Wh-what?”

“Get your shit.”

“I swear, I didn’t—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me. I can show you
the tape if you want to see what I saw.”

Her lower lip started to wobble. It wasn’t
going to work. I’d given her the benefit of the doubt, hoped I was wrong or it
was just a one-time thing. But she’d gotten too bold.

“But I need this—”

I
cut her off. She wasn’t even going to deny it. Not that she could. We both knew
she’d done it, and I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her beg or justify her
actions. Even though she didn’t know it, I’d already given her a second chance.
And all that had done was cost me even more than I could afford to lose. “I
needed someone to work the shop—someone who wasn’t going to fuck me over and
steal from me. You weren’t capable of that, so you’re out. Now get your shit.”

“But—”

“Save your breath, Bree. I ain’t listening
unless you’re here to tell me you’ve got all the money you’ve taken, and you’re
putting it right back where it belongs.”

Her face twisted into an angry glare even
as the tears started falling. “You … you don’t understand.”

“No, I really don’t understand.” I crossed
my arms and waited her out. When she realized the water works weren’t changing
my decision, she spun off the stool, grabbed her giant purple purse from behind
the counter, and stalked toward the door.

“You get all self-righteous with me about a
little cash while you basically steal from people? Giving ‘em twenty dollars
for their shit? Like you’re one to judge.”

A little cash? She’d skimmed enough to buy
a nice used car, and I’d been too trusting to even realize it until the numbers
hadn’t added up in a big way.

She slowed near the guitars at the front of
the store and malicious glee lit her eyes.

She wouldn’t.

Oh, but she did.

Bree grabbed a guitar and swung it toward
the rack as the chimes above the front door jangled. Wood crashed against wood,
and two female screeches erupted.

Shit … if she injured a customer…

I charged Bree and ripped the guitar from
her hands before she could swing again. A swirl of red hair caught my attention
as the other woman dodged out of the strike zone.

Bree struggled against my hold, and I
wondered if I was going to end up with a face full of the acrylic claws tearing
at my arms. “Let go of me, you asshole!”

“Whoa, boss. Getting the door for ya.” Mathieu
bolted across the shop and yanked the door open again. I hustled Bree out and
set her free on the sidewalk.

“Her exit could totally use some work, but
all-in-all, that was one hell of a welcome.”

I turned to survey the woman standing in
the doorway of Chains. Even without a photographic memory, I didn’t think I’d
ever forget this particular pose: one arm braced on the doorframe and the other
propped on her hip, a green dress hugging curves that had my entire body
sitting up and taking notice. Matched with her long, curling red hair, she was
a goddamn knockout. What the hell is she doing here?

“You lost, sweet thing?”

She stepped onto the sidewalk and tore the
HELP WANTED sign off the bottom corner of the front window. Holding it between
two fingers, she smiled. “Nope. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m your
newest employee.”

About Meghan March:

Meghan March is the author of contemporary
and erotic romance novels.

Meghan March has been known to wear camo
face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while
sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and
absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut.
Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom
jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha
males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the
most fabulous job she’s ever had. She loves hearing from her readers at meghanmarchbooks@gmail.com.

Sadie Westbrook’s seemingly perfect life comes to a screeching halt when she catches her fiancé in bed with another woman. Suddenly, everything she believed in is tested and there’s only one person she can turn to—the guy who has been by her side ever since their best friend’s fell in love and became inseparable.

Ezra Collins—the bassist for the band Willow Creek—has only ever had one weakness, and her name is Sadie. When he receives a frantic call he rushes to her aid, helping to pick up the pieces of her crumbling life—even if that means letting Sadie live with him.

The close proximity tests the limits of their friendship and as the lines between friends and lovers blur they’ll have to decide if falling in love with your best friend is worth the risk of losing them.

I looked up at the sky and the
birds flying above us. “I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. I spent two years
with a guy that stripped me of my identity. I feel like all I have of myself is
my store and the rest I’m left questioning. I tried so hard to please him, to
make him happy, and in the end I made myself miserable. I was just so desperate
for it to work out that I overlooked how toxic our relationship was. How stupid
is that?”

“You’re human,” he replied. “We
have this inane desire to belong to something that is greater than we are on
our own. That desire is so strong that we can fool ourselves into believing
things that aren’t true.”

“So, I’m not crazy?” I cracked a
smile.

“Definitely not crazy.”

His smile was comforting and I
reminded myself for the hundredth time that everything would be okay.

I rested my head on his shoulder
and a moment later his head rested on top of mine.

Micalea
Smeltzer is a bestselling Young and New Adult author from Winchester, Virginia.
She’s always working on her next book, and when she has spare time she loves to
read and spend time with her family.

She said I was like a song. Her favorite song. A song isn’t something you can see. It’s something you feel, something you move to, something that disappears after the last note is played.

I won my first fight when I was eleven years old, and I’ve been throwing punches ever since. Fighting is the purest, truest, most elemental thing there is. Some people describe heaven as a sea of unending white. Where choirs sing and loved ones await. But for me, heaven was something else. It sounded like the bell at the beginning of a round, it tasted like adrenaline, it burned like sweat in my eyes and fire in my belly. It looked like the blur of screaming crowds and an opponent who wanted my blood.

For me, heaven was the octagon.

Until I met Millie, and heaven became something different. I became something different. I knew I loved her when I watched her stand perfectly still in the middle of a crowded room, people swarming, buzzing, slipping around her, her straight dancer’s posture unyielding, her chin high, her hands loose at her sides. No one seemed to see her at all, except for the few who squeezed past her, tossing exasperated looks at her unsmiling face. When they realized she wasn’t normal, they hurried away. Why was it that no one saw her, yet she was the first thing I saw?

If heaven was the octagon, then she was my angel at the center of it all, the girl with the power to take me down and lift me up again. The girl I wanted to fight for, the girl I wanted to claim. The girl who taught me that sometimes the biggest heroes go unsung and the most important battles are the ones we don’t think we can win.

**This is David ‘Tag’ Taggert's book, a supporting character introduced in The Law of Moses. This is a stand-alone story.

Excerpts (Use as many or as few as you like)

Excerpt #1

Amelie and Henry didn’t come by the gym the next day. On Saturday, I thought I saw them once, beyond the wall of windows along the front of the gym, but when I looked again they were gone. I shrugged, deciding Henry must not have been as excited by the idea as Amelie thought he would be. A few minutes later I looked up to see them hovering near the speed bags, Amelie holding firmly to Henry’s arm, Henry looking as if he was about to bolt and drag his poor sister with him. They were garnering some strange looks—Henry with his crazy bedhead, his darting glances, and jittery hands and Amelie because she stood so still and looked so out of place in a gym filled with muscles and men.

I called a quick halt to my bout, escaping Axel, who was trying to pummel me into next week, and slid between the ropes that cordoned off one of the octagons.

“Amelie! Henry!” I called, noting how Amelie’s face was immediately wreathed in a relieved smile, a smile so wide it spread to her eyes, giving the illusion of sparkle and life. But Henry started backing up, pulling his sister with him.

“Yo, Henry. Hold up, man.” I stopped several feet from them and lowered my voice. “Did you know that Jack Dempsey versus Jess Willard was the very first fight to be broadcast over the radio?”

Henry stopped moving and his hands stilled.

“Do you know what year that was, Henry?”

“1919,” Henry said in a whisper. “The first televised fight was in 1931. Benny Leonard vs. Mickey Walker.”

“I didn’t know that.” Actually, I had only known about the Dempsey, Willard fight because I’d seen a biography on Dempsey on Netflix the night before. God bless Netflix. The mention of the radio had made me think of Henry and the sportscast blaring from his bedroom. “You wanna tell me more?”

“David ‘Tag’ Taggert, light heavyweight contender with a professional record of eighteen wins, two losses, ten knock outs.”

“You checked up on me, huh?”

Henry’s mouth twitched, and he looked away shyly.

“You did! What else did you find out? That all the ladies love me, that I’m the best looking fighter, pound for pound, in the universe?”

Henry looked confused for a second, and I realized he was searching his mind for that stat. I laughed. “Just kidding, buddy.”

Millie opened the door to greet me, a smile on her lips, my name on her tongue, but I didn’t wait for her to release it. I wanted her to keep it, savor it, and never let it go. I needed my name to stay inside her so that I wouldn’t float away like a word that’s already been spoken. So I pressed my lips to hers and swung her up in my arms like a man in a movie, and my name became a cry that only I heard.

I felt slightly crazed, and my kiss was frantic as I barreled up the stairs with Millie in my arms. My legs didn’t shake and my mind was clear, as if in its health my body was rebelling too. I wanted to roar and hit my chest. I wanted to shake my fists at the heavens, but more than anything I wanted Millie. I didn’t want to waste another second with Millie.

Then we were in her room, the white comforter pristine and smooth, like Millie’s skin in the moonlight, and I laid her across it, falling down beside her. I was anxious. Needy. I wanted the safety of her skin, the absolution of her flesh, and the promise that came with it. I wanted to take. I wanted to cement myself in her memory and leave my mark. I needed that. I needed her. She matched my fervor like she understood. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. But she didn’t slow me down or beg me for reassurance.

My hands were in her hair and tracing her eyes, fingering her mouth, pausing in the hollow of her throat. I wanted to touch every single part of her. But even as I lost myself in the silk of her skin and the sway of her movements against me, I felt the horror rise up inside of me and shimmer beneath my skin. It wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be enough, and I knew it, even as I closed my eyes and tried to make it be enough. I couldn’t breathe and my heart raced, and for a moment I thought I would tell her everything.

She must have mistaken my fear for hesitation, the cessation of my breath for something else, because she cradled my face in her hands and pressed her forehead to mine. And then she whispered my name.

“David, David, David.” It sounded like a song when she said it. And she kissed my lips softly.

“David, David, David.” She chanted my name, like she couldn’t believe it was true, like she liked the way it felt in her mouth.

“I love the way you call me David,” I said, and remembered the line from my silly song, the line that had no rhyme.

“I love that you are mine,” she breathed, and the fear left me for a time. It tiptoed away and love took its place, love and belonging and time that can’t be stolen.

Amy Harmon is a USA Today and New York Times Bestselling author. Amy knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do, and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Her books are now being published in several countries, truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Levan, Utah.

Amy Harmon has written seven novels - the USA Today Bestsellers, Making Faces and Running Barefoot, as well as Slow Dance in Purgatory, Prom Night in Purgatory, Infinity + One and the New York Times Bestseller, A Different Blue. Her newest release, The Law of Moses, is now available. For updates on upcoming book releases, author posts and more, join Amy at www.authoramyharmon.com

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I received an arc in exchange for an honest review
Just a warning to people that if you don't like dark reads then this isn't the book for you, as there are scenes of violence and taboo subjects.
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It was nice to have Bash's story in print.
I finally got to understand why he did what he did. The pressures that he was under and that he felt that he had only one way out of it.
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This deserves 4.5 stars
This was a dark dark read, only read this if you like dark reads.
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**** I received this arc in exchange for an honest review***
This book is about two desperately messed up people who come together.
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